


You Could...

by StarSpangledBucky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpangledBucky/pseuds/StarSpangledBucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock is cooped up in a small apartment, hiding out until he feels the need to come back into John’s life. He’s constantly having flashbacks of Moriarty’s words, wishing they would go away. Meanwhile John, still stuck in the reality that Sherlock is truly dead, takes some drastic measures. Is Sherlock going to be too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could...

“You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain? We always feel it, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s weakened body writhed under the comfort of his bed sheets, a whimper escaping his lips. 

“BUT YOU DON’T HAVE TO FEAR IT. Pain, heartbreak, loss, death, it’s all good.” 

“No,” Sherlock mumbled, his features contorting from fear to anger.

“Come on, Sherlock. Just die why don’t you. One little push and off you pop. You're going to love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you.”

“Stop it,” he growled, clutching the sheets close to him. 

Sherlock lay in a deep sleep, but the flashbacks and nightmares still rotted in his mind. Those words like venom being spat out of his nemisis’ mouth. 

“Mrs Hudson will cry and mummy and daddy will cry, and The Woman will cry, and John will cry buckets and buckets.” 

“John,” Sherlock mumbled softly.

“You’re letting him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger.” 

“No!” Sherlock yelled, his eyes snapping open as he locked around the room, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

Beads of sweat dripped from the detectives matted brown curls. He hadn’t properly washed in a few days, nor had he eaten well, or slept well for that matter. His eyes trailed to the clock on his bedroom wall, a small sigh leaving his lips as he turned onto his side. It’d been two years since Sherlock had supposedly ‘died’ after jumping from St.Barts Hospital. He had to watch his best friend and colleague, John Watson, watch on in disbelief. The memories of that day always made a shudder go down Sherlock’s spine. Yet here he was, alive, and healthy...sort of. He’d stayed cooped up in a flat that was about four buildings down from 221B, his old home. For days he tried to think of ways that he would return to the old flat, and to see John. Sherlock remembers listening to him when he visited his grave, the words ‘just for me’ hit him in the face like a train.

“I was so alone...and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this...”

Sherlock turned on his back as a single tear fell from his eye and down his cheek. Never had he felt such guilt in his life, he felt it everyday as he heard from either Mrs Hudson or his brother Mycroft that John was still a mess. He didn’t mean to cause such harm to him, but, he saved his life did he not? Moriarty had men set up, ready to kill everyone who was so dear to the detective. Sherlock could not risk it, so that’s why he jumped, because he couldn’t handle the thought of people he adored being dead, that was not who he was. Although he hid himself well, inside Sherlock was a time bomb waiting to explode, his emotions were eating him from the inside, slowly rising to the surface. The only time he ever cracked was before he jumped, the way his voice broke when he talked to John on the phone. Sherlock sat up in his bed, bringing his knees up to his chest and he rested a hand under his chin. 

“I’m a fake,”

“Sherlock…” 

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you… that I invented Moriarty for my own purposes,” 

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

Another tear fell as he shuddered slightly, remembering what he had said, and what John’s last words were.

“Nobody could be that clever," “

You could...”

The memory was enough to make him break again, not just one tear, more like hundreds, thousands. He couldn’t handle it any longer, all the guilt, the pain he caused people, the mistakes and the doubts...everything. Sherlock let out an aggravated cry as he threw an empty mug at the opposite wall, his hands clenched into fists as the tears kept falling. 

“John will you ever forgive me,” he whispered, resting his head in his arms. 

“Sherlock,” a gentle voice spoke.

The detective lifted his head, while wiping away the tears as he put his gaze upon Mrs Hudson. 

“Mrs Hudson, it’s 4am, why are you here so early?” he questioned, wrapping himself the bed sheets.

“Just wanted to check up on you dear, thought I might bring you breakfast. How are you feeling Sherlock?” she asked, walking into the room.

“I’m...average Mrs Hudson, how is...John?” Sherlock asked, a guilty tone in his voice.

“As per usual love, hasn’t had a wink of sleep, very unresponsive. When will you be coming back? He gets more distant every day,” Mrs Hudson replied.

“Very soon,” Sherlock replied.

Mrs Hudson nodded as she took Sherlock’s hand, giving it a small pat before leaving the room, the apartment door closing quietly behind her. Sherlock sighed heavily as he curled back under the covers, resting his head on his pillow before closing his eyes. Perhaps a few more hours of sleep would be useful to him. 

“I’ll be home soon John, I promise,” he whispered, before drifting into a peaceful slumber.

~~~*~~~

“You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero. Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there,”

John sighed heavily, his eyes opening slightly as he gazed around the dull apartment. He can’t recall the last time he heard silence, not good silence, sad silence...lonely and afraid. His neck was aching slightly from falling asleep awkwardly in his seat. It had been two years and John, was still grieving. He mourned for his best friend, the one who kept him absolutely sane at the worst of times. Even though he thought of Sherlock as a slight pain in the backside, he made him laugh, smile and feel worth in life. Now that seemed to be a thing of the past. He’d visited Sherlock’s grave every week until he couldn’t handle it anymore. 

“Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead,”

Tears were brimming on the edge of his eyelids, yet he held them back. He’d cried enough in the two years he suffered the lose of Sherlock. He hardly left 221B, thinking people would look at him, question him or talk about him as he walked by. Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to look after him, but for her he was somewhat pushing his luck now. 

“John, you have to move at some point love,” she spoke as she entered the room. 

It was just past 9am and John had no intention of moving, he never did. His sleeping pattern was all over the joint, his eating habits turned from decent meals, to small meals and then soon nothing, maybe just a snack here and there. 

“I’m fine Mrs Hudson,” he muttered, picking up his book from the floor. 

Mrs Hudson sighed briefly before nipping into the kitchen to make John some tea. John looked across at the window where Sherlock used to stand, composing and playing music. He missed the sweet, sombre music that the young detective played, for John it was calming. 

“Here’s your tea dear,” Mrs Hudson issued, setting the tea onto the table. 

“Thank you,” John replied quietly. 

She smiled, yet John smiled back half heartedly, he had no reason to smile. He wishes Sherlock was here to make everything better, to sooth the ache in his heart, to make him smile again. The thoughts were enough to make John shudder slightly, a gasp leaving his mouth as he covered his eyes. He was suddenly having a flashback of that day Sherlock jumped. 

John watched on as Sherlock threw away his phone after hanging up on him. He spread his arms wide as he looked down at the street below, John’s eyes meeting his. John remembers mouthing the words ‘please don’t, Sherlock.’ But it was far too late for anything, Sherlock had thrown himself off St Barts, his coat flying up slightly. Then the thud of Sherlock’s body on the ground below, as John stared in disbelief, shock, running to his best friend yelling...

“No,” John gasped, as he shook his head slightly. 

“Sherlock!” 

“Stop!” John yelled, the tears spilling from his eyes. 

Then there was the blood, a pool of crimson blood, Sherlock’s. That’s when John had been hit by a passing cyclist, dazing him until he reached Sherlock. His hand went to Sherlock’s as he put his finger’s on Sherlock’s wrist, no pulse...

“Argh Sherlock why have you done this to me!” John roared, throwing his cup of tea across the room. 

“John? John is every alright up there!” Mrs Hudson called.

John didn’t answer as he dropped to his knees, picking up pieces of the cup that flew back his way. The tears dripped down his face, his shoulder’s shuddering as he gasped for some air. He heard footsteps behind him as Mrs Hudson knelt down to help him. 

“John,” she whispered.

The doctor shook his head as he put down the pieces of glass and sobbed even louder, his hands over his face. 

“I just want him back,” he cried, biting his lip with such force it almost bled.

Mrs Hudson placed her arm on John’s and gave it a comforting squeeze. 

“I know you do love,” she soothed. “Now go and clean yourself up, I’ll fix this mess, you haven’t had a shower in days, maybe go get some fresh air,” she added.

John finally gave in as he stumbled to his feet before leaving the room as he climbed the stairs to the bathroom. As he entered his bedroom he looked around the tidy room as he hadn’t slept in there since Sherlock died. He walked over to the small desk in the room, opening the drawer as he pulled out his gun, the one he used to kill the cabbie that nearly killed Sherlock before he ran away. But still, Sherlock knew it was him who had done it. The thoughts of Sherlock once again brought on a new set of tears as John held the gun to his chest, closing his eyes. 

“Don’t John,”

His eyes snapped open as he gazed around the room, hearing that familiar voice again. 

“Sherlock?” he mumbled.

Nothing. 

“Dammit,” John cursed, looking down at the gun again.

“John, please,” 

John dropped the gun back on the desk, turning away from the desk. He knew the voice was just in his head, yet it felt all too real. He turned back to his desk again as he sat down, grabbing pen and paper from the drawer. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I promised, but I can’t,” John whispered.

That was when he started writing a letter...one he would most likely regret. 

~~~*~~~

It was just past noon when Sherlock decided it was time to go. He couldn’t wait any longer, hearing of John’s suffering brought him to a stand still in his hiding. He’d made a phone call to Mrs Hudson that he was coming over shortly, to which she said she would make sure John was preoccupied with something else. Sherlock reached into the antique wardrobe, taking his coat off the rack as he shrugged it on, turning the collar up. He turned and grabbed the blue scarf on his bed, wrapping it around his neck as he smiled contently at the feeling of his normal clothes again. 

“I was getting quite tired of those track pants,” he mumbled.

He slipped his gloves on before looking over himself in the mirror, fluffing his hair slightly. With one last glance, Sherlock was making his way down the stairs, grabbing an umbrella from the stand. Luckily it was raining outside, giving him a little more camouflage as he made his way to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock stepped out of the apartment, locking the door behind him as he flared the umbrella out. 

“Right,” he huffed, walking down the wet stairs as he made his way down the street.

People passed him by, barely taking any notice as they tried to get out of the rain. Sherlock was preparing for at least one person to notice him, yet it never happened. He was relieved as some of the water splashed inside his shoes and he cursed to himself. Upon reaching the flat he knocked on the door, waiting outside as the rain started to get slightly heavier. The door swung open as Mrs Hudson stood with a note in her hand.

“Sherlock, it’s John,” she spoke with slight break in her voice.

Sherlock stepped into the apartment as Mrs Hudson gave him the note and he began to read it, his heart sinking at every word. 

“Dear Mrs Hudson,

Thank you for your hospitality, I couldn’t have done it without you. I’ve gone for a walk somewhere, but I do not think I will be back. I am so sorry. I left this months rent in an envelope in the kitchen for you, I hope it will be enough. 

The reason why I am writing this is because I’m not coping. Ever since Sherlock left our lives I haven’t been able to think straight. It sounds silly but before he jumped from St Barts, I wish I’d told him how I truly felt. But there has to be a reason as to why he jumped, there has to be. But I can’t live with pain any longer. 

Forgive me Mrs Hudson. 

And Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon, I hope. 

Look after yourself Mrs Hudson.

Kind Regards

Dr. John Watson.” 

Sherlock read over it again as he shook his head in disbelief and fear. ‘How I truly felt,’ what did he mean? And where was he? 

“Dammit John!” Sherlock yelled, throwing the note down.

“What’s wrong Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“This is a suicide note Mrs Hudson, a suicide note!” he exclaimed, a crack in his voice as a tear formed in his eye.

“Oh Sherlock, where will he be?” she cried, covering her mouth with her hand.

Sherlock shook his head as he closed his eyes and went into his ‘mind palace.’ 

“Come on John, where are you,” he grumbled.

The detective recalled some words from the note, spinning them around in his head.

Walk

St.Barts

Jumped

Sherlock’s eyes flew open as he turned to Mrs Hudson.

“I know where he is!” he yelled.

“Where?” she asked with worry.

“I can’t explain, I have to go before it’s too late, stay here Mrs Hudson,” he ordered, running out of the room.

He thundered down the stairs as he flung the door open before running out to the streets. It was still raining slightly, yet he had no time to catch a cab, this was urgent. Sherlock started to run down the street to St Barts, weaving through people, not caring that the rain was drenching him. 

“Please don’t be too late,” he cursed, running as fast as he could.

~~~*~~~

John walked into the lobby of St Barts as he made his way up the stairs. He was trying his best to go unrecognized as he searched for the door which led to the roof. He kept contemplating in his head whether this would be a good thing or not. But, the pain and mourning was getting too much for him. Why not get rid of it? 

“John?” a voice spoke.

He turned around to see Molly poking her head out a room, giving him a raised eyebrow.

“Hello Molly,” he replied, with a small smile.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I, uh...some of S-Sherlock’s stuff was left here, I came to get it,” he mumbled.

“Oh right,” Molly replied, her face softening a little. “How are you holding up?” she questioned.

John merely shrugged as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

“I’ve been much better Molly, believe me,” he sighed.

Molly looked at John, a look of sympathy on her face as she walked over to him and gave him a quick hug. 

“Just, don’t do anything silly, John, I’ll let you be on your way,” she whispered, before turning away. 

John watched Molly disappear as he sighed deeply, turning around as he climbed another set of stairs, turned down a corridor and then walked up to the roof of St.Barts. His mind was telling him to stop, but it seems his body had all the control. 

“Forgive me Sherlock,” 

~~~*~~~

Several streets later, Sherlock was standing outside St.Barts, flashbacks burning in his mind as he shook then off. He ran up the stairs as he burst through the doors, several people gasping as he stood there. 

“Where’s Molly?” he questioned.

No one answered.

“Where’s Molly!” he yelled.

A young man pointed up a flight of stairs as Sherlock ran to them, bounding up them as he reached a room, peering inside. Sure enough, Molly was inside, sitting by a microscope and taking notes. 

“Molly, where’s John?” he questioned, bursting into the room.

Molly jumped from her seat as she looked over at Sherlock, her eyes widening slightly.

“I thought you weren’t coming out for a few days?” she replied. 

“I know, but Molly this is important, John left a suicide note, where is he?” Sherlock asked with a raise in his tone.

“He said he was coming here to collect some of your leftover stuff,” Molly mumbled.

“Molly don’t be ridiculous my stuff I have all of it at ho-” he stopped short as he turned round. 

“Sherlock?” Molly whispered.

“He’s up on the roof, Molly, he’s on the roof! I’m sorry I need to hurry!” Sherlock yelled, dashing out of the room.

He clambered up the stairs, turning down the hallway John had been down and then climbed up the stairs as he opened the door out onto the roof. There he stood, his feet placed on the edge of the building, back turned to Sherlock, small sobs escaping his lips. 

“John stop!” Sherlock yelled. 

John tensed as he dropped his hands to his side. 

“No it’s all in your head John,” he whispered. 

“John,” Sherlock spoke again.

He turned as he locked eyes with Sherlock, his heart lurching in his chest.

“Sherlock?” he gasped.

Sherlock stepped forward, slipping his hands into his pockets as he neared John.

“It’s me John,” he whispered.

John started to shake his head, the wind blowing his jacket back slightly.

“No, no...Sherlock you’re dead, this is just a dream, I’m dreaming,” he sobbed.

“No John, this is real,” Sherlock answered, reaching out to grab John’s arm.

John gasped as he felt the gentle touch of the detective’s hand on his arm. His mind started reeling and tears started to fall like buckets of rain. 

“How?” he sobbed.

“I’ll explain myself later, just, hop off the edge, please,” Sherlock pleaded.

John looked at his best friend, noticing a tear sliding down his face. Never in his life had he seen Sherlock cry, he always kept it hidden from people. John suddenly felt anger boiling inside him. 

“Two years Sherlock. Two years I thought you were gone and you weren’t!” he yelled.

“I know John, but I-” John cut Sherlock off.

“Don’t give me your excuses Sherlock! I’ve grieved for two years, and for what? Nothing? Because you’re alive!” he cried, pulling his arm from Sherlock’s grip.

Suddenly John’s foot slipped, losing his balance as he fell back.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice rang in his ear.

Sherlock lunged forward as his hand wrapped around John’s wrist, gripping tightly as John hung from the side of the building. 

“Why Sherlock? Why did you do all this?” John sobbed, looking up at him.

“Because I-” Sherlock choked as another tear slid down his cheek. “Because I love you!” he roared as his hand gripped tighter on John’s wrist. 

John’s eyes widened as he locked eyes with Sherlock again. He never thought he’d hear Sherlock say anything like that. Never in his life, Sherlock always said he was married to his work. John felt Sherlock’s other hand grip onto his shoulder as the detective hoisted the doctor up onto the ledge, pulling him away from the edge. 

“Don’t you ever do that again John,” Sherlock warned.

Without uttering another word, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, bringing him into an embrace. John started to cry again as he put his arms around Sherlock, gripping to his slightly damp coat. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” he whispered.

“It’s alright John, I’m here now, it’ll be alright,” Sherlock soothed. 

John felt Sherlock’s body shudder as he placed his hand in Sherlock’s damp brown curls and ran his hand through them, soothing the detective. 

“Don’t leave me for so long next time,” John muttered into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“I promise,” he sighed, pulling away from John.

“Sherlock...” John wavered.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed.

“I-I love you too,” John replied.

Sherlock gave him one of his lopsided smiles, his eye crinkles showing slightly as he cupped his hand under John’s chin. 

“I thought you always said you were married to your work,” John mumbled.

“John, you are part of my work, I will always adore you more than anything else. I hid it, yes, but I was afraid. I’m unaware of relationships. However, I’ll make it work, for us,” Sherlock explained.

John sighed happily as Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s before pressing their lips together in a sweet, short yet passionate kiss. 

“I love you Sherlock Holmes,”

“And I love you, Dr John Watson,”


End file.
